The Penitent Assassin

By Shawn Wickersheim

Thirty years ago, when Mallor was a child, he was the sole survivor of genocide. Five years ago, while pursuing his revenge he was ambushed and killed. His goddess offered him a chance to return on the condition he became her assassin. Mallor agreed.
Now, he is back, in the dank city where it all began hunting down a list of old foes, but thirty-six hours before his revenge would be complete, he learns a couple of things; he has a daughter, she's been kidnapped by a sadistic magic abuser and the price for her release would not only ruin all of his plans but also kill his goddess.
Mallor is nobody's hero, but could he sacrifice his daughter to save his goddess, or will he forsake his faith and his need for revenge, risk going to hell and rescue her instead?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Wickersheim
• Release date: Aug 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465950260

Shawn Wickersheim

Shawn Wickersheim lives in historic Woodstock Illinois with his wife and children. He is currently hard at work editing his next fantasy novel. The Penitent Assassin is his first ebook.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mallor stepped out of the narrow alley into the fringe of the busy marketplace and glanced down at his bloody hands. Cold, acidic rain pricked his stained fingers and palms, but his hands were steady. Not the slightest of twitches betrayed what he had just done—a troubling, yet necessary evolution.

Absolve me of my sins, Mallor muttered the familiar words, before I must sin again.

The contentious rasp of the magic he’d accidentally absorbed five years ago sounded in his mind, If killing an enemy during a time of war is not deemed murder, then killing a replicated follower of the Divine Shadow should not be a sin either.

Soltari decides what constitutes wicked behavior, not you or I, Mallor said, And though I tend to agree with your reasoning, I am biased.

Aren’t we all?

Mallor shrugged. He held no illusions about himself. He was a sinful man.

You’re a product of your malignant environment.

Mallor thought to refute the magic but found himself without a strong rebuttal. Grave events had sculpted his life from an early age and the new Sepeccare, the cankerous capital city, and its immoral society had only influenced him further. He had learned years ago there could be no real justice for him in this world.

You’ve proven my point.

No, I chose to pursue the sinful path of vengeance.

Is it truly a choice when no other option is available?

I could have chosen the path of . . . Mallor couldn’t push the word ‘forgiveness’ past his chapped lips. Revenge may be an ignoble quest, and pursuing it a poison for his soul, but he had willingly sacrificed his promise of a serene afterlife for a chance to exact punishment on those who had made him, and his kin suffer. To suggest otherwise would be a lie. And he didn’t lie, especially to himself.

A thunderclap jolted him out of his pensive mood and shook the stark buildings looming over him. Mallor eyed the sinister storm clouds as they spat more lightning at the decayed city. It made him long for the sun.

Without a backward glance at the burnt corpse hidden beneath some trash in the alley, Mallor slipped through the crowded bazaar. He brushed his hands against the coarse, damp cloaks of those he passed leaving a trail of crimson smears in his wake. By the time he reached the far side, his hands were clean.

The persistent noise of the hawkers and peddlers gave way to a sour cacophony of music, laughter and lust. Though only mid-afternoon, the unmistakable chorus of moans and groans coming from the open windows of the dilapidated bordello ahead saturated the chilled autumn air and his thoughts began to stray toward creamy flesh and passionate kisses. Before his fantasies could fully develop, he shoved them aside. He had more important business to attend to in the area.

Mallor searched the rain-soaked street and the surrounding buildings for his contact Aldo Borae. He soon found his old associate leaning against the bordello’s brick wall, half in the shadows, half in the rain.

Mallor? Aldo’s pallid face scrunched up as he approached. That you?

Mallor nodded.

I was told you were comin’. You look like shit.

I’ve been busy.

Heard dead.

It didn’t last.

Aldo snorted and leaned in close. You sure?

Mallor caught a whiff of something foul off the little man: spoiled onions, rancid beer, vomit and–Mallor glanced down at Aldo’s damp, olive-green trousers–urine. There was a wild, pungent odor mixed in there too, subtly hidden beneath the rest and Mallor grimaced when he recognized it.

Essence. The magic inside him perked up. Replenish me!

The stench of the addictive elixir clogged Mallor’s nose and wormed into his brain. He couldn’t move. Or breathe. Or think. Vaguely, he realized he was still staring down at the little thief with a blank look on his face. It would not do to reveal this unsteadiness in front of Aldo; he chided himself, so he feigned a coughing spell to give himself time to gather his wits.

You may not be dead, Aldo grumbled, but you’re travelin’ the road toward it, ain’t you?

Aren’t we all? Mallor tilted his head toward the hulking estate crouched across the street like some prickly razorback. Tell me the particulars.

Aldo crossed his spindly arms and hunched his shoulders against the bitter rain. I don’t care what Kennard thinks. There ain’t no way you’re walkin’ in there and takin’ that building’s cherry.

Mallor waited. He wasn’t going to be baited into an argument.

Aldo grunted. She’s Locrane’s primary city home—built some two hundred years ago before the slums down the street became Sepeccare’s shithole—called Dysmar or something like. Supposed to mean–

I don’t need a history lesson.

Aldo spat a wad of something brown into the street. I’ve kept my eye on that stone bitch for almost two weeks now—night and day—tested the windows and doors with my magic too.

And?

Aldo combed his greasy hair back with the three remaining fingers on his right hand and the four on his left. The tips of all seven were black. You won’t get in her. She’s stitched up tighter than a virgin priestess.

While Aldo babbled on about the benefits of both real and fake virgins, Mallor studied Dysmar. The estate was built primarily of black granite, and its bold architecture and ominous facade suited its current owner, Gervase Locrane, a notoriously violent and sadistic magic abuser. According to Kennard, Locrane had recently acquired the Armilleae. During their meet the previous night, Kennard had continued at length about the holy relic’s supposed powers, but Mallor didn’t need to hear the guessed-at details. All that mattered was Kennard wanted it, none of his men could steal it, and he was willing to pay a handsome fee for it.

Where’s Locrane now?

The little thief pointed north. Visitin’ the king.

Are you sure?

He ain’t a quiet man—heard him barkin’ orders at the driver when they left. He won’t be back ‘til after dark.

Did he take the Armilleae with him?

Nah. My guess, he’s got it locked up inside somewhere. If you wait a bit, you might–

Mallor marched across the street oblivious to the cursing carriage drivers forced to swerve around him and climbed the cobblestone drive leading up to Dysmar’s main doors.

Hey! Aldo shouted after him. What you doin’?

A burly guard sporting a scowl stepped off the portico as Mallor approached and raised a meaty hand. Hold on–

Mallor slugged the guard square in the face. Bone and cartilage broke beneath his fist. The man folded in half and sagged into a puddle. Mallor stepped over him and charged up the stone steps. He reached the oak doors as they groaned open.

Stop! the emerging guard demanded, brandishing a sword. Or—

Mallor swatted the blade aside, plowed into the stunned man and drove him backwards through the doorway and into the vestibule. They fell, a tangle of limbs, with Mallor landing on top. Before the guard could cry out, Mallor head butted him once, twice, grabbed his ears and slammed his head against the floor repeatedly until he lost consciousness.

Mallor stood. The hall was quiet except for the patter of rainwater dripping off the back of his long coat onto the marble. He picked up the guard’s sword and headed for the winding staircase beyond. With Locrane gone, he figured the quickest way to locate the Armilleae was to find Parnetta, Locrane’s wife, and force the information out of her. He hadn’t seen Parnetta for years, but he was certain he’d recognize her again. Her kind of ugly was hard to forget.

The whispered scuff of his boots against the marble steps broke the oppressive silence and echoed softly against the stone walls. Muted thunder rumbled overhead. When it died, the tomblike stillness returned.

At the top, he passed through another pair of doors and collided with a young maid. A basket dropped from her hands.

Beg pardon. She knelt to collect the dirty linens spilled at his feet.

Mallor held the borrowed sword behind his back. No need. It was my fault.

Thank you, sir. She gave him a puzzled look. Are you lost?

Mallor relaxed his posture and tried to soften his expression, but there was only so much he could do with his rugged face and thick jaw. I’m looking for Parnetta.

Lady Locrane doesn’t entertain guests up here, sir, the girl said, straightening. It ain’t proper.

Is she nearby?

The maid pointed a bony finger toward the stairs. You must return to the sitting room, sir. It’s one floor down—first door on the right.

He didn’t move.

If you give me your name, sir, I’ll tell her you’re here.

Mallor’s thoughts drifted to the dead man in the alley. I believe she is waiting to see Phinneas Dreng.

Frustration flashed across the girl’s pale face. Very good, sir, Lady Locrane will deal with you shortly. She crossed her arms and waited.

Mallor decided against bullying past her so he retreated down the stairs and found the sitting room. Several priceless Fallerian paintings hung on three of the four walls, a couple of Nulkans, a few obscure Luvaans, and Obattar’s Visage of Deception. He recognized that one. Hundreds of painted faces lined the canvas from top to bottom and viewed as a whole, they created an image of a single aged face. He’d stolen it years ago. Apparently, he wasn’t the last to do so.

A massive stone fireplace dominated the fourth wall and, on the mantle, flanked by two silver candelabra, sat a narrow, jeweled box. Mallor’s fingers twitched. Perhaps he didn’t need Parnetta after all. He started toward the mantle.

Touch the box and you’ll be trapped.

Mallor stopped short, eyes narrowing. The magic was right. Near invisible tendrils of a foreign magic entangled the box and the immediate area around it.

Told you.

Mallor searched the room for another approach. He found none. Even if he scaled down the inside of the chimney he’d be trapped at the hearth. His mind raced. He’d have to do something drastic. The success of his revenge hinged on his ability to steal the holy relic again.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. They were too heavy to be the maid and too light to be a guard. Perhaps Parnetta. Deciding not to confront anyone inside the magic-laced room, Mallor returned to the doorway. The plump woman tramping down the stairs was thicker in the middle than at either end with heavy jowls dominating her pudgy face. Liberal use of paints and powders did little to hide her age and they only seemed to accentuate her homeliness. An enormous black mole dangled off her right temple like a fat spider.

You’re not Phinneas, Parnetta said, eyeing him suspiciously.

I know.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Who are you and what are you doing here?

Mallor’s attention drifted to the delicate gold and silver bracelet coiled around her left forearm stretching from her wrist to her elbow.

I’ve come for that.

Parnetta glanced at the Armilleae and back at him, chuckling softly. Don’t be silly. What is your business–?

Mallor’s stare stopped her words as effectively as if he had slapped her fat cheek and covered her mouth with his powerful hands.

Take it off.

Confusion and fear crept across her face and centered behind her widening eyes. I c . . . can’t.

He tightened his grip on the sword. I won’t ask again.

All I . . . She puffed out her drooping chest and tried to regain her composure. The giant black mole quivered. All I have to do is scream.

He closed the distance between them so quickly she gasped. Go ahead— He grabbed her left hand, yanked it away from her body and using the borrowed sword, severed her arm just below the shoulder. Scream.

What did you do? Aldo demanded when Mallor returned with the arm.

My job, he said, not willing to admit anything as heroic as, ‘and I saved Parnetta’s life in the process’.

Aldo eyed the bloody limb dangling from his hand. Kennard said you were still crazy, but this is insane. Locrane is gonna–

Give me your cloak.

It’s raining. Aldo mopped his face with the back of his snot-stained sleeve. I’m not– Mallor’s stare pinned his mouth shut. Aldo stripped out of the cloak without further complaint and handed it over.

Mallor wrapped the limb with the bracelet still on it inside the garment and tucked it under his arm. I want you to set up a meeting, just me and Kennard. Delgado Bridge. Nightfall. Tell him to come alone.

Ain’t happenin’. Kennard won’t agree to that. Aldo shook his head, spraying droplets of rain. You and me got to go back to the Frog’s Ass Tavern and–

He’ll come, Mallor said, alone, or I’ll keep the bracelet.

You shouldn’t mess with Kennard like this. It’s a good way to get hurt bad.

Mallor walked away. I’ve been hurt worse.

Chapter 2

The swollen clouds over the waterlogged city of Sepeccare bled smutty rain. The water stained the buildings black and collected in overflowing ditches stinking of human waste. The miasma of death and decay rising around Mallor as he wound through the claustrophobic streets of the Heart District was strong enough at times that he was forced to cover his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. Even then it felt like he was swimming through the insalubrious stench. During his five-year absence, the once grand city had devolved into a putrid cesspool.

Mallor paused in sight of the Delgado Bridge. Across the bloated river slouched the Sagging Inn with his tiny window on the third floor. From that vantage, he had spied on the shipping traffic coming up river from Rimbauld City—specifically looking for ships belonging to the Drengs. Unfortunately, his interest in that incestuous crime family had not gone unnoticed. Even after disposing of Phinneas Dreng’s dark replicate, a second shadower had paced him through the narrow streets. Mallor checked the road behind him.

Empty. This unseen follower was better than Phinneas—less obvious.

Mallor moved on, glancing over his shoulder again as he rounded a corner. Still no sign of his tail, but he was back there somewhere in the shadows. Maybe it was Dreng, maybe it was someone else, a street thief perhaps or an aggressive beggar hoping to pick his pocket. Mallor thought about that for a moment and then shook his head. This wasn’t some common robber. More than likely it was somebody with a tenacious memory and a grudge, somebody who wanted him dead.

And that was a long list despite his efforts to shorten it.

Mallor crossed over the Delgado and took a circuitous route to the inn. The wispy presence behind him faded. Still, Mallor stopped short of his destination and ducked into an alcove to wait and watch. No shadower appeared. After ten minutes, he started feeling a bit foolish.

Go on, the magic teased. No one’s watching you now.

Mallor splashed across the street and pushed through the inn’s lopsided swinging doors. The taproom was dark despite the crackling fire and it stank of old cigars and wet dog. A fat woman with a down-turned mouth cast her watery eyes on him from the only cushioned chair in the room and pointed at the bar. Gimme a dwink.

Mallor ignored her slurred words and headed up the stairs. At the top, he fished a key out of his vest pocket and made his way down the dingy hall to his loft. A damp chill bore through him, and not for the first time since his return to the city did he notice his bone-tired weariness. He had slept little over the past few weeks; his intricate revenge schemes required most of his time, plenty of physical labor, and nearly all his fortune, but with nightfall still a couple of hours away, he’d have a chance to change clothes, pray for forgiveness, and take a nap before his face-to-face with Kennard.

The wet dog stench smacked him in the nose as he slipped into his room. Instinctively, he reached for one of the six hidden knives sheathed along his back. Before he could draw it, something sharp pricked his neck at the base of his skull.

Mallor . . .

He recognized the mangled voice behind him. He’d mangled it.

Dirk. Mallor tossed the bundled bracelet onto his bed next to a pile of clean clothes. What’re you doing here?

He was answered by a wheezing chortle. I’m gonna collect the bounty on your head. They said it couldn’t be done. But I gotcha.

Which one?

Dirk hesitated. Which one what?

Which bounty? There’s more than one.

I know that. His tone suggested he didn’t. The something sharp poked Mallor again. Now get on your knees and put your hands behind your back.

Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m not one of your whores.

Don’t piss me off. Bounty pays double if I bring you in alive.

Dirk’s warning told Mallor everything he needed to know. Still Martine’s loyal pet, I see.

The prick jabbed his neck again. Dagger? Knife? Perhaps the tip of a crossbow bolt? I said kneel.

Mallor didn’t. Which part?

He could almost hear Dirk’s brain fumbling with the question. Which part of what?

Mallor whirled to his left. Dirk pulled the trigger. The crossbow bolt grazed the side of his neck as he spun away. Ignoring the now empty weapon, Mallor grabbed Dirk’s scarred throat and stared down at the gruesome hole in the center of his face where his nose used to be. Which part do I cut off this time?

I . . . I . . .

Mallor drew a slender knife and pressed the tip against Dirk’s cheekbone. Lie once and I’ll take your eye. Lie twice and I’ll take them both.

Sweat trickled down Dirk’s forehead and dripped onto the silver blade. What do you want to know? His mangled voice sounded worse than before.

Did Martine tell you where to find me?

She had help.

Really? Mallor kicked the loft’s flimsy door closed. I think you’re lying.

Hours later, Mallor came down the stairs alone. The crossbow dangled loosely in his left hand, reloaded. In the kitchen beyond the now empty taproom, he heard the innkeeper, Mr. Sagging, and his wife, Dara, bickering. Mallor was stunned to hear the innkeeper’s voice again. He was even more surprised when he overheard them use the name, ‘Mallor’. He hadn’t told either of them that name, using instead one of his aliases. Perhaps Dirk had been telling the truth.

He pushed through the black curtain at the rear of the taproom and entered the kitchen. The Saggings were nose-to-nose.

I just heard an interesting story, he said.

The two whirled around, their bickering forgotten and from their startled expressions, Mallor figured they hadn’t expected to see him again–at least not free and armed with a crossbow.

Who told Martine I was here?

Dara’s eyes raked across the wooden table in the middle of the room and settled on the butcher’s knife stuck in its center. The gray aura encompassing Mr. Sagging’s pale face darkened.

I don’t know nobody by that name, he sputtered. He glanced over at Dara. She placed a hand on her rounded hip and scowled back at him.

Mallor pointed the crossbow at Mr. Sagging. I won’t ask again.

Please don’t hurt me, he whined. I don’t know who she is.

Idiot! Dara snarled.

What?

He never said Martine was a woman.

Mr. Sagging’s face went white. His aura went black. The room smelled like he’d lost control of his bladder. He clasped his hands together, perhaps praying to his vile god for assistance and then he dropped to his knees in front of Mallor. You’ve gotta understand. Martine said if I didn’t help her–if WE didn’t help her–she’d kill me.

What do you think I’m going to do?

Mr. Sagging pointed an accusatory finger back at Dara. SHE is the one who recognized you. SHE is the one who contacted Martine first. SHE–

Mallor triggered the crossbow. The bolt punched through the innkeeper’s damp forehead, knocking him over and shutting him up.

With speed Mallor didn’t expect from a woman her size, Dara lunged for the butcher’s knife. Mallor dropped the crossbow and caught her hand as it wrapped around the handle.

Let go! She struggled against him. The weight of his arm bore down upon her hand pinning it to the knife.

If you draw on me, I will kill you.

You’re going to kill me anyway. Dara met his gaze. I know you. I remember you from before. I heard you were dead which is why I didn’t recognize you at first. You’re smaller and–

You contacted Martine, not the other way around?

She remained silent probably debating whether to answer or not. He waited.

I heard there was a bounty, so I sent him— she nodded toward her dead husband, —to Martine with a message when he . . . well . . . when he . . . came back. We figured we couldn’t capture you ourselves, so Martine sent a man around. He paid us ten gold sovereigns–a tenth of the bounty–for our help.

A tenth would have been at least twenty times that amount.

Anger surged across her round face.

Keep the gold, he offered.

The look of anger turned to one of surprise and disbelief and then suspicion.

But— he added, before she could speak, —you must do something for me in return.

Besides your laundry? What now?

Make sure you burn him this time. Mallor glanced at Mr. Sagging’s body. The dark replicate was still inert. Otherwise, he’ll just keep coming back.

Dara eyed him curiously. Eventually she shrugged and nodded. He eased the pressure off her hand and she yanked her fingers back consoling them with her other hand. The knife stayed in the table.

Is that all?

No. He had to get to the Delgado Bridge, but there was one more piece of business to finish here.

She tensed again, waiting.

Mallor reached into a pocket and tossed a pair of hazel eyeballs onto the table. They bounced softly and wobbled to a bloody stop next to the butcher’s knife. Go untie the man in my room and see to it that he gets those back.

Chapter 3

Mallor stood in the shadows near the center of the Delgado and listened to the rain drum a steady tempo against the brim of his hat. Without a break in the storm clouds, the gray rainy day darkened into a black rainy night. Kennard was late.

Despite the raw autumn weather, Mallor had wanted to meet outside, away from Kennard’s smoky lair and his steadfast gang. He had seen the hard looks on the hard faces of the men and women at the Frog’s Ass Tavern the night before–dozens of thieves and murderers carving out an existence by carving up the flesh of their marks. Raids and assassinations were Kennard’s specialties and finalizing any deal with him was a tricky affair. Mallor scanned the bridge again. He saw no sign of his old boss or any of his crew.

Someone was out there though, just out of range of his night-sight. He couldn’t locate them, but he could feel the weight of their gaze. Watching. Waiting. Just like earlier. The small hairs on his neck and arms rose and a twinge of frustration nipped at his mind. Kennard was playing games with him.

Or was it Martine?

His ex was a cunning sorceress, always scheming and pitting her rivals against each other. He would have preferred keeping his brief return a secret from her, but she’d always had a nasty habit of knowing when he was in the city, so he had planned accordingly. He’d also planned to avoid her, if possible, because another of her nasty habits was her ability to lure him into bed. Her body would start talking, and his body would start listening. Occasionally, he’d even hear an encore. But that was the past, and in the past, he’d always been under the influence of essence.

So had she.

That was another of her nasty habits, and he doubted if she’d given it up. Not many did–or could.

You’re not free of me yet, the magic reminded him. And I still say you should kill that bitch.

Mallor brushed the advice aside. Typically, he avoided killing women; however, there were exceptions to every rule and Martine’s actions earlier were forcing him to reevaluate his own boundaries. Sending Dirk after him again was insulting, especially considering what he’d done to the hapless bounty hunter the last time he’d come poking his nose around.

Heavy footsteps brought Mallor out of his grim reverie and he berated himself for allowing his mind to wander. Lumbering toward him from the east side of the bridge was his old boss, a bearish man with a lion’s mane of black hair steadily going gray. When Warwyk Kennard spied him, his pace slowed, and his yellow, essence-stained lips hardened into a constipated grimace.

Aldo told me what you did, you crazy sonofabitch, Kennard said. I wanted the bracelet stolen with some finesse.

No, you didn’t. Lightning slashed across the northern sky near the castle and the rain drumming against Mallor’s hat quickened.

Yeah . . . Kennard chuckled. It sounded forced. I remember the work you used to do for me. Why pick a lock when you can kick the door in, right? He chuckled again. Still fake. I’ve got an especially ripe job comin’ up tomorrow night. It could be like the old days. The gods know I need someone–

I told you last night, just this one job.

You workin’ for someone new?

No.

Kennard gave him a hard look. I’d hate to think you were.

Mallor stared.

Got nothin’ to say?

I don’t like repeating myself.

Kennard snorted and gestured toward the package. You still got the bitch’s arm with you?

Yeah.

Let me see it.

Show me the diamond choker first.

Relax. Kennard patted his coat pocket. I’ve got it right here.

Something wasn’t right. Mallor considered walking away, but he wanted the choker too. It had belonged to his mother, a gift from his father on their wedding day. The necklace had been stolen during the Massacre. Just days ago, he had finally learned of its whereabouts.

C’mon. Kennard stepped closer. The hard liquor on his breath and the lingering cigar smoke on his clothes did nothing to hide the stench of essence. You can trust me.

Mallor knew that was a lie. He checked the bridge; it still looked empty, yet, Kennard was acting overly confident, like he’d consumed too much essence.

My fee, Mallor demanded. Yes or no?

You’re still the same old sonofabitch, aren’t you? Even off the essence. Kennard reached into his long coat and pulled out a leather sack. The diamond choker, just like I promised.

Show me.

The chiseled lines in Kennard’s face deepened. He opened the bag and pulled out the necklace. See?

Mallor’s breath caught in his throat. It had been thirty years since he’d last seen the choker. His mother had taken it off after a formal dinner party and he’d insisted on counting the one hundred and ninety-six diamonds again before going to bed.

Satisfied now?

Toss it over.

Kennard dropped the choker into the sack and cinched it closed. Let me see the bracelet.

Mallor didn’t like this. He could pull a knife and probably end the banter now, but something Kennard had said earlier troubled him. How did his old boss know he was off essence? He hadn’t told anyone he’d quit.

You may have quit using essence, but I’m still trapped inside you–at least for a short while longer.

Mallor ignored the voice and searched for an answer. Had Aldo noticed? The thief did know a little something about magic.

I don’t want to stand out here all night, Kennard complained. Show me the damn bracelet.

Walk away. You need the Armilleae. Don’t gamble with it for the choker.

Mallor yanked on a flap of Aldo’s cloak and pulled it back. As if on cue, lightning crackled across the sky and illuminated the gold and silver relic.

Kennard whistled. Will you look at that? Thunder shook the bridge. I’ll admit I wasn’t sure if you still had the balls for the job, but a deal is a deal. He started chuckling again. This time, it sounded real. Unless you can make a better one.

You’re being crossed. The magic stated the obvious. How ironic. Beaten at your own foolish game!

Lightning split the black sky and this time Mallor spied a hulking, four-hundred pounder lumbering toward him from the east end. Without looking, he knew another monstrous beast would be approaching from the west side cutting off his escape. Kennard’s twin towers of muscle—his Painmongers.

We can do this the hard way, Kennard said. Or the really hard way.

Mallor dropped into a crouch, keeping his back to the bridge’s metal railing, and reached for a knife. Before he could draw it, something sharp and painful slammed into his left shoulder blade and pitched him forward. He slipped on the wet stones and fell to his knees in front of Kennard.

I figured you’d pick the really hard way.

Kennard kicked Mallor in the face. His head snapped back, and the rest of his body jerked into the air as if he were hooked on a line. He hung at the apex, arms and legs awry, and then he found himself flat on his back. His weight drove the crossbow bolt deeper into his shoulder. He’d been hurt worse, many times, but it wasn’t the blossoming pain that angered him, it was the ambush. How had he missed it? Kennard kicked him in the ribs, and Mallor was airborne again. He spun through the rain and landed face down, gasping for breath. Blood dripped from his mouth into a puddle beneath him. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to rise.

You didn’t see this comin’, did you? Kennard closed in on him. Bein’ off essence will do that, or so I’ve heard. It kinda mucks up your thinkin’ and–

Mallor buried the heel of his boot in Kennard’s crotch. The big man bent in half and staggered away. Two pairs of rough hands grabbed Mallor’s arms and jerked him into the air. He fought against the brutes, twisting, kicking; he couldn’t break free. The Painmongers were strong, essence-fueled strong, but something else wasn’t right. Something else was hurting him deep inside—a dull, building pain, throbbing in time with the beating of his heart. He’d felt the same sickening sensation before–

It’s a bleeding spell! The magic blurted out as it feebly chased after the foreign spell.

How had it gotten inside . . .?

The answer came to Mallor almost as quickly as the question. The spell must have been attached to the crossbow bolt and its insidious enchantment was now racing through his veins seeking ways to make him bleed. He had to extract the spell, and soon, or he’d die. His mind scrambled for solutions. It would help if he knew who had cast the vile incantation. Kennard wasn’t capable. Martine—

The air filled with the rank stench of spoiled onions, rancid beer, vomit and urine. Mallor gasped. Perhaps Aldo wasn’t quite the fool he had known five years ago.

The pallid man strutted around in front of him carrying an empty crossbow. He scratched at his stubbly chin with his three right fingers and sneered. I only had to hang off the side there for a couple of hours. That’s nothin’ compared to the two weeks I spent outside Locrane’s stone bitch, Dysmar. He tossed his crossbow aside and drew a knife. Then, you charge in and collect the prize without a thought of offerin’ up a share? That’s shitty, Mallor, very shitty.

Mallor glared at the snot-nosed man in silence.

This’ll get you talkin’.

Aldo lunged. His knife ricocheted off one of Mallor’s ribs and tumbled out of his hand. Mallor grunted. The bleeding spell surged toward the new wound. Aldo stooped to retrieve his knife. Mallor kicked it away.

Drown in hell, Aldo cursed. He backhanded Mallor hard. A bladed ring on his middle finger opened a gash across Mallor’s left cheek. I’ll slice your eyes next time.

The next time you get that close, you’ll be sorry, Mallor muttered. He slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest.

Aldo retrieved his knife and came strutting back. What was that? He spun the blade around with his three fingers and almost dropped it again. Speak up.

You heard me.

Aldo bent over him. You got it all backwards. You’re the sorry–

Mallor straightened sharply. The back of his skull struck something soft and he heard a satisfying crunch. Aldo fell over backwards and grabbed his nose. Blood spurted from between his seven fingers and down onto the front of his shirt.

Break him, the thief sputtered. Now!

The Painmongers took turns working on Mallor’s face and body. Mallor tried to free himself, to protect himself, but their heavy, essence-fueled blows drove him down to his hands and knees.

Let me at him, Kennard growled.

Dazed, bruised, but not yet broken, Mallor heard the distinctive ring of a sword being drawn. He knew his old boss well enough to know what would happen next. Apparently the Painmongers did too because they backed away, giving Kennard room to work. Mallor climbed to his feet and struggled to hold the world around him still. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hungry black beast of unconsciousness stalking him. If he didn’t get his feet moving before Kennard swung his sword, the beast’s open maw would be the least of his worries.

I’m gonna hang your balls on my wall, Kennard told him, right next to your head!

Mallor had heard enough. With his remaining strength, he lurched toward the metal railing and began to climb.

Stop him! Kennard shouted.

A dagger slammed into Mallor’s right thigh as he reached the top. He spun around to face his attacker and lost his grip on the wet rail. He teetered on the edge before plunging over the side and pinwheeling through the darkness toward the black, swirling waters of the Anson River below.

Find him, Kennard shouted at Aldo as the four men stormed off the bridge. Find that bastard and make sure he’s dead.

He’s dead. Aldo expelled a thick gob of phlegm and blood. If the fall didn’t break his neck, then he’ll bleed out in the water.

I want proof.

First light tomorrow I’ll head down river. If his body went beyond the border and over the falls in Rimbauld City though, there ain’t–

Then you’ll hike down and keep searchin’, Kennard cut him off. I want that bastard’s head mounted on my wall. Do you understand?

I’ll get you his head.

Cause it’s either his or yours goin’ on my wall.

Lightning slashed the sky revealing Kennard’s stern expression. Aldo wiped his bloody hands on the front of his shirt and straightened his shoulders. What about Locrane? Thunder shook the heavens. He ain’t gonna be too happy about us stealin’ the Armilleae.

Don’t worry about him, Kennard said. He lifted the lumpy makeshift package dangling at his side. By the time he gets any kind of magical fix on this, it’ll be Cole Graeham’s problem.

Chapter 4

I don’t care for your tone, Locrane, King Eadric Garroway said, putting his fork down, the tender slice of beef skewered on its tines forgotten. The knife, however, he kept in his black-tipped, leathery fingers. And I certainly don’t like the direction this conversation is going.

Gervase Locrane offered him a predatory smile, revealing his sharp teeth. Against his painted red lips, they looked exceptionally yellow. Times change, your majesty. Powers shift, and stars realign. It is the natural order of all things.

Your words stink of treason. And it wasn’t the only thing that stank in the dining hall. Locrane reeked of an over-indulgence of essence and decaying flesh.

It’s a scent you should know well. Locrane dropped the smile and cut himself another piece of beef. The malodor of your own treason still lingers on the crown even after all these years.

I took this fledgling city and created an empire!

And now your empire is crumbling around you. Locrane chewed noisily. I’m giving you the opportunity to abdicate peacefully and name me as your successor.

Garroway’s first impulse was to toss the brash Quaneah half-breed into an oubliette beneath the castle, but he hadn’t survived as king for nearly thirty years by acting on first impulses. Locrane was a talented sorcerer even without essence and attempting to apprehend him would be both difficult and dangerous and not without serious financial and political repercussions.

My patience has limits, Locrane cut into the king’s thoughts. What do you say?

Why would I entertain such a ridiculous suggestion?

To avoid war.

Garroway met Locrane’s steely gaze. His red-rimmed eyes showed no signs of bluffing. War? he scoffed. With what army do you intend to invade us? Your lowly factory workers, perhaps?

You know I have the Armilleae.

The Armilleae is no match against my royal army.

Are you willing to risk your life to prove it?

Garroway slammed his knife on the table. I’ve had enough of this discussion.

Do you remember what Hattendorf did with the Armilleae against the Quaneah nation a few years ago? Locrane pressed. His voice hardened as he spoke. It could happen again. Here. With the Armilleae on my arm, I don’t need to ask for the crown. I could just take it.

Garroway remained silent. He knew of the Armilleae’s violent history and some of its tremendous powers. Will you give me time to consider your proposal? A week or two–

No! You will make an announcement at the Old Bailiwick during the Lord-and-Lady’s Costume Ball tomorrow night and then you will officially abdicate and turn the crown over to me during the royal feast celebrating the Festival of Fallereus the following day.

That’s too soon!

I think it’s a fitting time considering what you and your fellow Peccarian enthusiasts did to the Fallerians to gain power in the first place. Locrane tented his fingers over his plate. Either agree to a peaceful transition or suffer the same fate as your one-time Quaneah allies. Annihilation.

You’re bluffing. Garroway infused his words with a heavy dose of persuasive magic. You will not–

I assure you, Locrane interrupted. I won’t fall for your verbal tricks like my father did. I have my mother’s Peccarian blood to thank for that.

The doors to the dining hall flung open and a courier wearing the half-breed’s black and red livery rushed into the room. Two sour-faced royal guards trailed after him.

My lord— The courier dropped to one knee beside Locrane’s chair. You must return home immediately.

Locrane glared down at the damp and disheveled boy. What is so urgent that you dare interrupt me?

Your Ladyship has been hurt, the courier’s lower lip trembled as he spoke. Her left arm was severed and—

Locrane shot out of his chair so quickly it tipped over backwards. The crash echoed in the hall. Without another word, he bolted for the door with his courier close on his heels.

King Garroway reclined in his chair and studied his brooding reflection in the blade of his silver knife. Locrane had a point. Times change and powers shift–a faint smile spread across his normally dour face–but the natural order, like desperate men, could be corrupted. Prior to becoming king, he’d succeeded in misleading the entire Quaneah nation with just a few well-phrased lies. The seeds of corruption he’d sown in the hearts and minds of those fierce nomads had grown into sinuous vines which had